"Well, Landor?" Kieron demanded, disdaining to use Landor's title.
Landor's smothly — handsome features showed no expression. The pae eyes veiled like a serpent's.
"I regret," the First Lord of Space said easily, "that His Imperial Majesty had retired for the night, Valkyr. Under the circunstances. ." He spread his slender hands in a gesture of helplessness.
The lie was obvious. Through the open doorway of the royal chambers came the murmuring sound of laughterand the reedy melody of a minstrel's pipes in the age-old ballad of Lady Greensleeves. Kieron could hear Toran's uncertain voice singing:
Kieron could imagine the boy — lolling foolishly before the glittering Ivane, trying to win with verses what any man could have for a pledge of loyalty to the Consort. The Valkyr glared at Landor. "I'm not to be received, is that it? By the Seven Hells, why don't you say what you mean?"
Landor's smile was scornful. "You out-worlders! You should learn how to behave, really. Perhaps later…" "Later be damned!" snapped Kieron. "My people are starving now! Your grubbing tax-gatherers are wringing us dry! How long do you think they'll stand for it? How long do you imagine I will stand for it?"
"Threats, Valkyr?" asked the First Lord, his eyes suddenly venomous. "Threats against your Emperor? Men have been whipped to death for much less."
"Not men of Valkyr," retorted Kieron.
"The men of Valkyr no longer hold the favored position they once did, Kieron. I counsel you to remember that." "True enough," Kieron replied scornfully. "Under Gilmer, fighting men were the power of the Empire. Now Toran rules with the hands of women. . and dancing masters."
The First Lord's face darkened at the insult. He laid a hand on the hilt of his ornate sword, but the Valkyr's eyes remained insolent. The huge Nevitta stirred, measuring the Pleiadene Janizaries at the door, ready for trouble.
But Landor had no stomach for sword-play — particularly with as young and supple a fighter as the Warlord of Valkyr. His own ready tongue was a better weapon than steel. With an effort, he forced himself to smile. It was a cold smile, pregnant with subtle danger.
"Harsh words, Valkyr. And unwise. I shall not forget them. I doubt that you will be able to see His Majesty, since I do not believe the tribulations of a planet of savages would concern him. You waste your time here. If you have other business, you had better be about it."
It was Kieron's turn to feel the hot goad of anger. "Are those Toran's words or Ivane's dancing master?"
"The Consort Ivane, of course, agrees. If your people cannot pay their taxes, let them sell a few of their brats into service," Landor said smoothly.
The die was cast, then, thought Kieron furiously. All hope for an adjustment from Toran was gone and only one course lay open to him now.
"Nevitta! See that our men and horses are loaded tonight and the ships made ready for space!"
Nevitta saluted and turned to go. He paused, looked insolently at the First Lord, and deliberately spat on the floor. Then he was gone, his spurs ringing metallically as he disappeared through the high curving archway.
"Savage," muttered Landor.
"Savage enough to be loyal and worthy of any trust," said Kieron; "but you would know nothing of that."
Landor ignored the thrust. "Where do you go now, Valkyr?"
"Off-world."
"Of course," Landor smiled thinly, his eyebrows arching over pale, shrewd eyes. "Off-world."
Kieron felt a stab of suspicion. How much did Landor know? Had his spies pierced Freka the Unknown's counter-espionage cordon and brought work of the star-kings gathering on Kalgan?
"It cannot concern you where I go now, Landor," said Kieron grimly. "You've won here. But.." Kieron stepped a pace nearer the resplendent favorite. "Warn your tax-gatherers to go armed when they land on Valkyr. Well armed, Landor."
Kieron turned on his heel and strode out of the antechamber, his booted heels staccato on the ffagstones, silver cape flaunting like a proud banner.
Past the tall arch of the Emperor's antechamber lay the Hall of the Thousand Emperors. Kieron strode through it, the flickering flames of the wall-sconces casting long shadows out behind him — shadows that danced and whirled on the tapestried walls and touched the composed I aces of the great men of Earth.
These were brooding men; men who stared down at him out of their thousand pasts. Men who had stood with a planet for a throne and watched their Empire passing in ordered glory from horizon to horizon across the night sky of Earth — men worshipped as gods on out-world pHanets, who watched and guided the tide of Empire until it crashed thundering on the shores of ten thousand worlds beyond Vega and Altair. Men who sat cloaked in sable robes with diamond stars encrusted and saw their civilization built out from the Great Throne, tier on shining tier until at last it reached the Edge and strained across the awful gulf for the terrible seetee suns of mighty Andromeda itself…
The last few of the men like gods had watched the First Empire crumble. They had seen the wave of annihilation sweeping in from the Outer Marches of the Periphery; had seen their gem-bright civilization shattered with destructive forces so hideous that the spectre of the Great Destroyer hung like a mantle of death over the Galaxy, a thing to be shunned and feared forever. And thus had come the Interregnum.
Kieron had no eyes for these brooding giants; his world was not the world they had known. It was in the next chamber that the out-world warrior paused. It was a vast and empty place. Here there were but five figures and space for a thousand more. This was the Empire that Kieron knew. This Empire he had fought for and helped secure; a savage, darkling thing spawned in the dark ages of the Interregnum, a Galaxy-spanning fief of star-kings and serfs — of warlocks and spaceships — of light and shadow. This Empire had been born in the agony of a
Galaxy and tempered in the bitter internecine wars of reconquest.
Before the image of Gilmer of Kaidor, Kieron stopped. He stood in silence, looking into the face of his dead liege. The hour was late and the Hall deserted. Kieron knelt, suddenly filled with sadness. He was on his way to rebellion against the Empire that he had helped this stern-faced man to expand and hold — rebellion against the power of Imperial Earth, personified by the weak-faced boy standing draped in the sable mantle of sovereignty in the next niche. Kieran looked from father to son. By its composure and its nearness to the magnetic features of the great Gilmer, the face of young Toran seemed to draw character and strength. It was an illusion, Kieron knew.
The young Valkyr felt driven hard. His people hungered. Military service was no longer enough for the Imperial Government as it had been for decades. Money was demanded, and there was no — money on Valkyr. So the people hungered — and Kieron was their lord. He could, not stand by and see the agony on the faces of his warrior maids as their children weakened, nor could he see his proud warriors selling themselves into slavery for a handful of coins. The Emperor would not listen. Kieron had recourse only to the one thing he knew.. the sword.